I cry and I cry. I can’t stem the tide. It’s Christmas Eve and I’m alone. The shit is raining down hard. And at the slightest provocation, I’m liable to well up and bust out. A blubbering mess, every nerve ending exposed, I am a pin cushion and every possible emotion I feel, the proverbial needle.
I hear a beautiful voice, I go to sniffling. I see and act of tenderness, an act of kindness, I sob. A touching story, some piece well done, a tear caresses my cheek. Memories of Christmases past? I lose it. Memories, period, and I go to boo hooing.
And I cry from joy. I cry from sadness. I cry and cry and cry and cry and cry. And I continue at the slightest provocation. Every minute. Every day in the week leading up to Christmas.
This late in life I’m beginning to fear this holiday, as until I find what it is I’m searching, I’m going to continue walking a very deserted road. And this sadness, this emotion that roils beneath my surface this time of year takes me closer to the sadistic realities of the choices I’ve made in my life and I’m left to suffer the consequences, cuts that run deep, years in the making.
That feeling usually doesn’t last terribly long as I when I look back I wouldn’t have done it any differently, but I certainly picked a road rarely traveled for this particular part of my journey, and when this time of year rolls around, I’m left to stew in my juices. Ones of my choosing.
My heart hurts. To the point I wonder if it will ever be able to beat with the same authority as times past.
And this soon, too, passes.
But yet, I’ve no one. And I’m alone.
Well, that’s a lie right there. Actual fact, close by, farting and snoring to their heart’s content, there lay Bela and Lily, two noble and understanding beasts who would give their lives for me without a second’s thought, and whose love for me is unwavering, and for that I’m eminently grateful.
I take stock. I’ve recently lived through the horrors of Hurricane Katrina, and I see these poor people who didn’t have much to begin with reduced to husks, nowhere to go, nothing to give, hopeless and helpless, and there’s is a plight.
I see people who have no homes to call their own, no jobs, no family, no friends, no loved ones, no pets even, and the colored lights only serve to darken their faces.
My situation isn’t near as dire. But I hurt. My hurt is real. I can’t avoid it, even though I try.
So I sit down and type, trying to make sense of it, and I fail miserably.
And I cry.
